The travel is long and arduous
Any end of way is nowhere near
A slow witness to season’s fast rush
He treads the motion of another year.

Sometimes resting on nights dark and starry
He wonders why life needs to race in hurry
When like him by just slowing down the pace
Could be reached a piece of peace and happiness!

Men would mock him for his vast slowness
Absence of speed his lack of progress
How would they know he never grew the lust
To set himself a goal and try to reach it fast.

The more paths men travel the more they seem less
Like going round in circle coming back to same place
Forever dreaming an ascent aiming the peak’s height
Chasing a gain to attain a light at end of night!

He moves on in the way the soil patiently waits the rain
Never unhappy to be left behind never scared he might fail
Just trekking along with no end of way no destiny’s pain
In the embrace of his belief for good reason he’s a snail.

.
This wee Scottish imp fell from the skies,
One mythic creature, telling only truths,
Fresh from a fabled land called Utopia—
Once gave a lecture to a room full of old,
Future splatterers of the status quo, dim
Poms and drones from a garrison called:
Oxford.  God save the dream!  Help us all . . .

Her perfume weaves a hint of tempest.

The blanket hibernating the illusive summers
lights a spark of desire.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

The smoldering fire
would bring him smell of cinders.

After Sunday you stink of hypocrisy
Please don't waste your breath preaching to me
To me it's one big joke
as you line up for the punch line
Wearing your see through clothes
and flaunting your plastered eyes
Keep funding your guilt
as I kick back and criticize
Pockets full of change
I wound not spare a dime

Honest moments are born
In the predawn stillness of the night
Tearful confessions whispered
Into the nook of one's neck
Smoke drifting lazily towards the ceiling
While the candle flickers in the background
Dancing and dancing all of the pain away